


The Hearts That Don't Forget

by n7chelle



Series: Sacrifices and Selfishness [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, estranged lovers, unexpected reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 23:37:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18788578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n7chelle/pseuds/n7chelle
Summary: The past comes looking for Anders in Kirkwall, with a proposition to separate him from the spirit once known as Justice. Anders may be interested, but Vengeance is decidedly not.





	The Hearts That Don't Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Small trigger warning for non-consensual drug use: Anders is forced to drink a potion without his consent.

There are usually a few unfamiliar faces around the Hanged Man, but tonight two in particular stand out to Hawke for several reasons. Chief among them: they're seated with Bethany, heads bowed and speaking in conspiratorial whispers when she draws near.

"Bethany, what an unexpected surprise!"

"Rianne! Finally, thought we'd be here all night waiting for you."  

Hawke can tell her arrival wasn't noticed, and still her once-jumpy little sister doesn't even flinch. It's not late enough that Hawke has to shout to be heard over rowdy patrons, but she pitched her voice just loud enough to carry into the corridors beyond the main hall and up to Varric's apartment. If there's trouble brewing, she wants backup ready.

The two strangers casually sit straighter on their bench as Bethany stands to greet her. One is a slender dwarven woman—well, as slender as dwarves get, anyways. The dwarf's skin is ruddy and brown, but she has the same permanent shadows under her eyes as Bethany—another warden then. She can't remember ever seeing another dwarf so tanned. Varric burns like a tomato anytime they spend more than a day outside Kirkwall. The other Hawke recognizes as the same tall warden that appeared with Bethany when the qunari were ransacking the city. What was his name—Alain? It's subtle, but she catches a slight shift between them where their hands are hidden under the table. _Letting go, or taking hold,_ she wonders, intrigued.

"Rianne, these are Wardens Alistair and—Sorcha. They're from the regiment at Amaranthine." The Wardens nod to her in turn. Alistair's face is open and friendly, but the brow of his companion—Hawke wonders what her story really is, that gave Bethany pause—is knit with something between worry and tightly wound impatience. She's seen that look on Fenris countless times, anxious to do something, to move forward, but not sure how or even if he'll be allowed.

"We're looking for a...friend," says Alistair, with a glance at Sorcha. "We've heard he's quite the healer around the seedier parts of town." Hawke raises an eyebrow. They're here for Anders then? To take him back to the Wardens? She'd thought all that was settled already, after the Deep Roads. She's not about to just hand him over, if that's what they're after.

Defiance and mistrust must be all over her face, (Father always said she was an open book) because Bethany tugs at her shirt lightly and gives her an unimpressed scowl.

"Have you so little faith, sister? I wouldn't bring them just to betray the man who saved my life. They're here as friends, I promise."

"Right, we just—"

"Hawke! Making new acquaintances, are we?" Isabella's voice cuts over Alistair's, and in the next moment her arm is slung over Hawke's shoulder, breasts squashed against her arm and stinking of ale.

"Good heavens, Iz," Hawke complains, shifting under the woman's deadweight grip. "Did you fall in or have you been getting a head start since noon?" Isabella just laughs, waving nonsensically in Hawke's face.

"Some ass—full tankard, all down me—" her hands gesture in the general area of her own body. " _Hello_ there—" she lurches on Hawke's arm drunkenly. So she _has_ already had a few. "You look _familiar._ 'Ave we fucked before?" Alistair flushes awkwardly, but a wicked grin steals over Sorcha's dark lips.

"We may have traded a few _thrusts_ back at in Denerim. At the Pearl?" she says, her voice surprisingly full for so small a body. But then Varric has a voice like gravel, Hawke reasons, so she shouldn't really be surprised. And it's like she's met a lot of dwarven women for comparison.

"Denerim, Denerim, Denerim..." Isabelle mutters, "When was I last in that beautiful cesspit, eh? Oh, _oh!_ I remember—you're the sweet little rogue I gave lessons to!" Sorcha smiles, a shade of warmth actually touching her eyes for the first time since Hawke's arrival. Isabelle gives Alistair a blatant once-over. "Which means _you're_ the adorable virgin that was panting at her heels like a mabari pup. Hope you've popped that cherry by now, love. Though I'd be more than happy to oblige..." Hawke expects Alistair to stammer out something to go with his blushing, but he just raises an eyebrow and tips his head towards Sorcha. "Oh, poo—it's no fun if you're in love. _Monogamy_ ," Isabella grouses, drawing out the word like she stepped in something foul. She flounces off back to the bar, swiping a tankard and downing the contents while Corff's back is turned.

" _Anyway_ ," Alistair says, looking meaningfully at Hawke and Bethany, still standing beside the table. Hawke glances around the tavern, but Varric hasn't emerged from his room, and no one else has arrived in the meantime. Anders is probably still at the clinic.  

"Follow me," Hawke says, jerking her head towards the stairs.

* * *

The Hanged Man's back door to Darktown is in a moldy storeroom, where the agents of Red Jenny often linger. The room is empty tonight and the floor is covered in a dirty threadbare sheet. Hawke nudges it aside with her foot, revealing the iron ring of a trapdoor.

"Down we go," she prompts, gesturing to the door. Alistair steps forward, heaving the heavy door open with a grunt. He gives the exposed tunnel and ladder a cursory check, then steps aside to let Sorcha go first. The glimmer of warmth is gone from her eyes, replaced by a stern blankness Hawke doesn't like the look of. Maker, she hope this isn't a mistake.

Night and day have no meaning in Darktown, the market and passageways as busy they always are, their wretched inhabitants having forgotten the need to rise and rest with the sun. The lantern outside Anders' clinic is still lit, and one door partially open. It's not exactly cleaner than any other part of Darktown, but the warm glow of that particular lantern still feels like a pocket of hope in an otherwise desolate landscape.

Hawke means to go first, to give Anders fair warning about his visitors, but Sorcha marches ahead without a word, shoving the door to the clinic aside with a brusque sweep of her arm.

"So this is where you've been," Hawke hears, in a tone far softer and more familiar than she expected. Alistair had followed Sorcha inside, and when Hawke crosses the threshold, the three wardens are staring at each other across the empty clinic as if separated by a great chasm. She's never seen Anders look so conflicted, clutching the soiled rag in his hands as if it's the only thing stopping him from launching a barrage of fireballs at the pair. His palms are faintly steaming as it is, heat rising from clenched fists.

"I—" his words are lost in a swallow, and he glares down at his hands, visibly struggling to rein in his magic. " **You should not be here!** " Growls the voice of Justice instead, snapping up to pin Sorcha and Alistair with a burning, hate-filled glare. It pains Hawke to see Anders' face twisted in such rage, so at odds with his dedication to helping and healing others; his tenuous control over Justice wears thinner every day.

"What've you done to Anders, spirit?" Alistair demands, taking a step forward. Justice snarls a wordless rebuke, halting the warden's advance.  

" **I have done nothing! We are one being, united in vengeance against those who would see mages oppressed—treated no better than dogs in chains! The templars and the Chantry will acknowledge their transgressions or** **_know our fury_!**"

"You are not the Justice we met in the Blackmarsh," Sorcha hisses, sounding to Hawke's ears equal parts disgusted and mournful. "Nor are you the Justice who took up a Warden's cause against the darkspawn," she pauses, taking in a deep, shaky breath.  Hawke catches a small motion at the dwarf Warden's side, something turning over in her fingers, too small to be a weapon.

Or so she thinks.

"I don't know _who_ you are," Sorcha continues, the steel back in her voice. "But I won't let you drag our friend down this path any longer." And with that dire pronouncement, she attacks with whatever is in her hand.

The object strikes Anders square in the chest with unerring accuracy. He doubles over with the blow, keening in agony through twinned voices, a white-hot surge of mana blasting the clinic with energy. Hawke stumbles into the frame of the open door, the wall of pressure inexorably forcing her back while the Wardens march forward, neither seeming to feel the effects of the raw, unchecked magic.

Hawke cries out as she tries to fight the crushing force magic, helpless except to watch and furious with herself for trusting so easily, Bethany's assurances be damned. Sorcha reaches Anders first, kneeling swiftly and speaking in his ear. Alistair crouches as well, a hand braced on the mages shoulder and holding tight against the violent tremors that began to shudder through his body.

 _"What are they doing to him?"_ Hawke shouts over Anders' tortured screams. At her side, Bethany struggles to keep her feet as well.

_"I don't know—they swore they were here to help!"_

_"Help_ **_how_** _?"_

But before Bethany can speak again, a blood-curdling shriek splits the air and Anders collapses into the arms of the Wardens, boneless and unmoving.

* * *

Hawke has never heard the full story of how Anders came to meld with the spirit named Justice. She's gleaned bits and pieces from anecdotes of his time before and during the Blight. But to hear the story from beginning to end, from the search for a missing Warden in a cursed marsh, to battling strange darkspawn and a vengeful pride demon within the Fade itself—Hawke can scarcely believe her ears. She expects Alistair to chime in at some point, offer slight corrections of additions the way people do when telling a shared story, but apparently he wasn't with them at that time. He just listens, a grim sort of amusement flickering across his features from time to time.

All the while, Anders sleeps.

The commotion from the clinic was sure to draw templar or City Guard attention sooner than later. Hawke was loathe to allow the Wardens anywhere near her friend, much less her home, but the Amell estate was the safest place to lay low short of leaving the Kirkwall entirely.

So now they sit around her dining table like some strange dinner party, three Wardens, a Champion, and a traitorous Mabari. Howlie has his chin firmly attached to Sorcha’s knee, won over by a few scratches and a strip of cured meat. Alistair mumbles something about Barkspawn being jealous when they get home, but it doesn't stop him from giving the hound few solid scratches as well.

"I promise we didn't come here to hurt Anders, or even recall him to the Wardens. If he asks us to leave when he wakes up, we will."

" _If_ he wakes up," Hawke clarifies icily. "You still haven't explained what you did to him."

The Wardens exchange a silent, uncomfortable look, which does nothing to ease Hawke's concern. If that was their idea of _not hurting_ she shudders to imagine how they treat enemies.

As if summoned by the growing tension, Anders shuffles into the dining room, leaning heavily on Orana's arm. Bodahn trails behind, hands raised in case Anders should stumble.

Sorcha and Alistair shoot to their feet, chair legs scraping on the stone floor, but neither moves to approach as Orana helps Anders sink into the nearest chair. He sits hunched like an old man, skin sallow and beaded with sweat and hands shaking where they're pressed flat against the table. The two wardens sit again but Hawke can see the reluctance in both of them, the restrained urge to move to his side.

Sorcha's amulet is still pinned to his chest.

"How much did you tell her?" Anders asks, eyes downcast, but head canted in the Wardens' direction. Hawke starts at the quality of his voice. It's...fuller somehow, and far steadier than she would have expected.

Alistair casts an uncertain look between Anders and Sorcha, whose gaze is fixed on the trembling mage. Her jaw is bowstring tight, and Hawke is shocked to see Sorcha's expression fracturing into a picture of misery.

"Everything we know," Alistair admits, sounding apologetic. Everything about him, from his body language to the tone of his voice, is imbued with a kind of sheepish humility that makes Hawke want to trust him, despite the circumstances. He wears the armor of a Warden with the ease of a career soldier; but Hawke finds it hard to believe him capable of ill into towards his fellow man, much less fell the countless darkspawn he must have faced during the Blight.

She won't be fooled again.

"And what did you do, exactly?" Hawke demands, circling the table to put herself between the Wardens and Anders. She'll have answers, and maybe she won't kick them out onto the street afterwards.

The explanation is simple: with the help of another apostate, Sorcha and Alistair had engaged the Formari enchanters to craft an amulet meant to protect against demonic possession. Hawke hadn't realized such a thing was even possible, and briefly wonders why the Chantry doesn't just pin one onto every mage in Thedas rather than locking them in the Circles and hoping for the best. Then she hears the list of ingredients and materials.

"It's _blood magic_?"

"With their right hand, the Chantry condemns everything they don't approve of as 'blood magic'," Sorcha snorts derisively. "And with their left, they hold up the Grey Wardens as heroes, Thedas' only shield against the darkspawn." She's smaller even than Bodahn, but Sorcha fills the room with a commanding presence that makes Hawke feel loomed over by a giant, and her flat, hard-eyed glare is fierce enough to cowe a dragon. "You were there, yes? When Anders saved your sister's life? What was that, if not blood magic?"

Hawke looks to Bethany, but she finds her own sister turned away and unwilling to meet her eyes. Hawke has the distinct notion she's getting in far over her head, as if she'd walked into the sea expecting shallows and found herself swept away by an undertow. Thank the Maker Fenris isn't here, at least.

"Fine, so the Wardens are full of blood magic, this amulet is full of blood magic—what's next, more blood magic?"

"The amulet isn't a permanent solution. It will only work as long as Anders keeps it charged with his own mana."

"And what _is_ the permanent solution?" Anders asks. "I know you better than to think you've come without a plan, Saor."

Morrigan can," Alistair intejects, then pauses, revising with whatever he's about to announce, "Morrigan _thinks_ she can reverse whatever magic bound Anders and Justice together."

"Is that something you want, Anders?" Hawke turns to face him, loathe to put her back to the Wardens but the need to give her friend her full attention wins out over tactical superiority.

Indecision and fear—of Sorcha (or is it Saor) and Alistair? Of this Morrigan person?—war within Anders, spilling out in the way the shaking fingers of one hand massage the stiffness out of the other; in the way his eyes keep darting to the empty corners of the room, avoiding the people gathered around him; in the way his chest lifts with long, slow inhalations, the kind he takes to calm himself after Justice has been in control for too long.

"I've been...losing time," he admits between clenched teeth. "It's getting harder to control Justice, sometimes. I'm—I'm—" he stutters, drawing in a shallow, shaky breath, swallows thickly. "I'm not sure I _am_ in control anymore." On the heels of his confession, Anders lifts his face to Hawke's, the uncertainty wiped away. Only the fear remains. It's not any of _them_ Anders is afraid of, Hawke realizes—its _himself._ "I thought I was helping Justice when we bonded, but...something's wrong. He's been twisted somehow, and I think...I think it's my fault. Spirits are singular, constant beings. Human emotion is what twists them into demons." He lays a hand on Hawke's arm, asking with the light pressure he can manage for her to step aside. "Justice wasn't meant to _be_ this way," he says, conviction rising up in his tone as he faces Sorcha and Alistair directly. "If Morrigan can truly— **No! You cannot—** " Anders breaks off with a whimper, replaced by the distorted cries of Justice. His chair spills backwards as he stumbles away from the table, his magic swelling again, mana crackling along the glowing channels that seem to split Anders skin. " **_This is our true purpose! We must bring order—cleanse the Chantry of their transgressions!_** "

"Hawke!" Sorcha barks, and Hawke flounders, uncertain of what the Warden expects. But it's not her the Warden is ordering—it's Bethany. Her sister pulls her staff from the Fade and plants it into the floor, hard enough to crack the tiles. Light spills from the crystalline tip, blue and blinding, before coalescing into a thread centered on the amulet glowing against Anders' sternum. Anders jerks as the thread snaps taut, his limbs frozen in a rictus of fury. "Alistair!" Hawke finds herself shoved aside as the second Warden pushes past, locking his arms around Anders from behind and speaking urgently in his ear just as they had before. This time, Hawke is close enough to hear.

She'd expected harsh words. Orders from a superior to a subordinate to get himself under control. Threats aimed at Justice, meant to force the spirit into submission. That is not what she hears.

"...me, An, it's Alistair. I'm right here. Listen to the sound of my voice. Come back to us. I know you're in there. I know you can hear me. Just follow my voice..."

Later, Hawke will wonder how she let her guard down so completely not once, but _twice_ , and whether it says more about her or these Wardens that they'd manage to eke their way into her trust so easily, despite all her misgivings. By the time she notices Sorcha has a bottle pressed against Anders' mouth, standing on tiptoe to reach, he's already been made him swallow its contents. His body doesn't even resist, trapped as he is by Bethany's spell. His eyes roll back, and his muscles which had been flexed with rage, go abruptly slack.

"I'm sorry, love," Hawke hears Sorcha whisper, as she and Alistair support Anders' limp form between them.

* * *

Hawke makes a slow circuit around the chamber . A few of the cots are in disarray, the threadbare sheets crumpled as if someone had just kicked them back this morning. There's a small washtub in a corner, made from a barrel sawn in half. The water inside is still as glass. The bandages left to soak are pale, soggy streaks in the bottom. There are towels piled on a rickety-looking table against the far wall, some stained red and brown with old blood. The brazier overhead is still lit. Everything in Anders' clinic is just as he left it the night before.

Anders' _former_ clinic.

Hawke had seen the Wardens off at the dock in the early morning hours. All the Wardens. Bethany couldn't be spared to stay behind, even for a short visit. They'd need her help to subdue Justice again, if by some chance he awoke during their journey back to Amaranthine. The potion they'd dosed Anders with was meant to keep him asleep for the crossing, but they couldn't be sure.

They'd sailed across the Waking Sea on a narrow little cutter, with an oilskin tent pitched on the deck towards the rear. There was just enough room under it for two average sized people (or one broad man and a slender dwarf woman, Hawke noted) to comfortably lay abreast. That was where they laid Anders, on a downy bedroll under the tent canopy. Bethany sat by him, holding him steady while Alistair moved about unfurling the sails.

He looked eerily peaceful in sleep, still as the grave and so drawn and pale Hawke couldn't help but wonder if he would ever truly wake again.

"If you need anything, write to Vigil's Keep and seal it with this." Sorcha pressed something small and metal into her hand. It looked like a coin with a thin post welded onto the back. When she flipped it over, the symbol of the Grey Wardens gleamed up at her in copper relief. "And if it's urgent, address it to Warden-Commander Aeducan directly."

"Why would the Warden-Commander care if I needed something?" Hawke asked, and Sorcha had smiled a small, rueful smile.

"It's a strange way to say farewell, but. Allow me to introduce myself: Saoirse Aeducan, daughter of House Aeducan, Arlessa of Amaranthine, and Warden-Commander of Ferelden." She held out her small hand. Hawke took it in a daze. "You have my word that a raven will be sent once we arrive in Ferelden, and whenever I can spare them afterward to keep you informed of Anders' condition. I wish we could have met under better circumstances, Champion." She squeezed Hawke's fingers once before slipping free. "Maker be with you."

The Warden-Commander turned and climbed aboard with a hand down from Alistair. Bethany stood and Saoirse took her place, folding one of Anders' hands between both of her own, his stark white fingers laced with her tanned ones.

A nod for confirmation, then Bethany raised her staff to the sky. The sails bowed with the fullness of wind behind them, and they were gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
